Bereaved of Light
by frizzy.writings
Summary: He has to wonder how they must look. Two worn and blood-stained men, one holding the other in his lap in the middle of a sad, nondescript cleaning closet. Christophe and Gregory. Slight slash.


WARNINGS for cheesiness, sappiness, inconsistencies with tense, inconsistencies with Christophe's accent and oh yeah sappiness

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><p>Explosions, gun shots, the snap of bones - these are all practically lullabies to Christophe DeLorne, for whom death is never a far off companion. He can list over a hundred different models of assault rifles alone, knows at least seventeen ways to kill a man with the tab from a soda can and, despite having slept through almost every history class he's ever attended, he can give you every subtle history related to the creation and engineering of the tank. He can identify bullets based on the casings, finds comfort in the sharp, smokey aroma of gun powder, and can name the type of gun being fired based on the sound of the shot with 75% accuracy.<p>

But there is nothing in him that can name the ear-splitting _bang_ that cracks through the air, followed immediately by a yell that can't quite cut itself off.

Christophe turns around so forcefully he nearly knocks himself off balance. There is a guard not fifteen yards off, his finger not even back on the trigger before Christophe has already fired off two shots in the general direction of the man's chest cavity. By the time he hits the floor, Christophe is already kneeling by his partner's side, his eyebrows knit together in what could be worry, could be a scowl. With Christophe it's always hard to tell the difference.

"Gregory!" he snaps, "What eez wrong?"

Gregory is on all fours, his right arm wrapped around his chest, his hand pressed against the side of his body. The left side of his shirt is looking dangerously damp and dangerously red, and basically the exact opposite of what you would usually expect from Gregory's button downs, always so spot-free and ironed to perfection.

Gregory brings his head up, and Christophe tries to ignore the small beads of sweat that have formed along his partner's forehead, but of course he notices, he has trained himself to notice. Gregory's expression is calm as ever, even his voice doing nothing to suggest that there might be a bullet lodged inside him.

"By all means, Christophe," he says in that clipped British accent, the one with a smirk hiding around every syllable. "Continue to stand around here so that we may allow them to detain us at their convenience."

Christophe growls, and is about to reply before the alarms cut him off. The hallway is swathed in flashing reds and whites, and further away they can just hear the sound of heavy footfalls over the blaring sirens.

Not wasting anymore time, Christophe scoops up Gregory like a rag doll and stands back up, the two of them briefly looking like they could have popped out of a scene from an action movie. Albeit, an action movie in which our heroes are maybe freaking the fuck out and don't have movie magic on their side and those bullets actually manage to hit their mark and the blood that is pumping its way out of Gregory's body is most definitely real.

"What are you doing," asks Gregory, his tone so flat it almost isn't even a question. That's Gregory though, flippant and unamused, blood loss be damned.

"You must be very fucking stoopid if you think zat I am just going to leave you on ze floor to die," mutters Christophe as he begins to take off at a run.

"Christophe!" hisses Gregory out of what could be pain, could be anger. "Where are you going?" The mercenary has just turned an abrupt corner into a hallway that, on the map that they have both memorized and studied to the point that they dream about it, has designated a dead-end. "You have to get _out_ of here."

"_Oui_, I know zat," mutters Christophe angrily as he stops in front of a door. He tries the handle, and is not surprised to find it locked. Gingerly, he kneels down to put Gregory onto the floor, and Gregory won't say anything but the gentleness in the way Christophe moves him honestly scares him more than the blood leaking out of his body. Christophe moves back a little, then rushes forwards, slamming one big-combat-booted foot into the door. The blare of the alarm drowns out the terrible _bang_ of the door as it slams back into the wall.

"This is a closet," mutters Gregory as Christophe scoops him back up and carries him inside. "A cleaning closet."

"Ah, _oui_, you are very wise Gregory. Eet iz a cleaning closet."

"Shut up," replies Gregory, though there is none of his usual bite. Christophe props him up against a shelf before swinging the door shut. He reaches around in the dark and comes up with some assorted cleaning supplies, which he improvises into a mechanism to keep the door locked from their side. Turning, he reaches up to find a small chain. He yanks it, and the room is bathed in a dim glow from the uncovered bulb stuck on the ceiling.

There is a sharp intake of breath, and Gregory stares up at Christophe, not sure if he's ever heard him gasp before.

"What?" asks Gregory, attempting to shift his position. Instead, he feels a sharp pain course through his left side, causing him to almost double over.

"What _'appened_?" asks Christophe incredulously, removing his pack to begin desperately searching for medical supplies. Gregory stares, trying to remember if he has ever seen Christophe move desperately for something. Angrily, irritated, quickly, yes. Desperately, no. People only move like that when they're clawing at something they can't accept they've lost.

"Well, to take a wild guess, I would say a few of those gunmen hit their mark," replies Gregory finally, the relaxedness in his tone a little forced, even to him.

"Take off your shirt," orders Christophe, tearing off strips of bandages with his teeth.

Gregory snorts. "I never thought you'd ask."

The look Christophe pauses to give him is murder. "Zis is no time for zinking with your dick. I am trying to keep you _alive_."

Gregory makes to begin unbuttoning his pitifully stained shirt, but is taken by a violent coughing attack. Ignoring just what Gregory is coughing up, Christophe reaches over with his knife and drags the blade up the entirety of Gregory's shirt, ripping it off himself.

"_Merde_," breathes Christophe, frozen over Gregory's chest. There is a terrible wound on his left side, a few inches below his heart, that is gurgling blood. Almost the entirety of Gregory's body, usually so clean and soaped up, is swathed in a crimson stain. Christophe has seen worse a thousand times over. Still, he has to close his eyes for a moment to keep from gagging.

"Am I that breath-taking?" mutters Gregory faintly, his head falling back. His body goes limp, and he begins to slip against the shelf that's supporting him.

"Gregory! Stay 'ere!" hisses Christophe, grabbing him quickly. He sinks sitting onto the floor, Gregory cradled in his scarred and dirty arms. He has to wonder how they must look. Two worn and blood-stained men, one holding the other in his lap in the middle of a sad, nondescript cleaning closet.

Gregory snorts softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I told you not to come," says Christophe, knowing the words are pointless. His eyes travel over Gregory's wounded body. His legs seem to be bleeding badly as well. _How did I not notice?_

"You were right." Gregory's head is still back, his eyes closed. He could just be sleeping. "I'll listen next time. I won't accompany you anymore."

Christophe has thrown grenades in the faces of men. He is used to making it through life with a cigarette in his mouth and a 'fuck you' for whoever thinks he cares. But still nothing has prepared him for that soft strain that has worked its way into Gregory's voice.

"Just 'ang on," orders Christophe, reaching over his friend's body to grab the strips of bandage he's laid out on the ground.

"I'd save those if I were you," comments Gregory, cracking open an eye to see what Christophe is doing. "You're more likely to need them than me."

"Bullsheet," replies Christophe, beginning to wrap the bandages around Gregory's chest, trying to ignore the way Gregory is shaking in his arms, how pale his skin is beneath his hands. Gregory has always been a statue. Calm, resolute. Christophe doesn't know the weak and dying man in his arms. "I am not ze one with a bullet in my side."

"_Don't you fret, Monsieur DeLorne_," sings Gregory, an almost sarcastic tone in his weakened voice.

"Oh, non," groans Christophe.

"_I don't feel any pain_."

"Do _not_ go all fucking _Les Miserables_ on me. I will fucking _keell_ you, Gregory!"

"Please do," replies Gregory, leaning his head against Christophe's shoulder. "That would most assuredly be less painful."

Christophe doesn't know what to say. Words are Gregory's forte, not his. He simply keeps wrapping the bandages around Gregory's chest, trying to layer them up as fast as he can, though the rate at which Gregory's heart is pumping blood out of his chest is beating him severely.

After a while, Gregory speaks again.

"Guess what Christophe."

"What?"

"I'm dying." He grins, and opens his eyes slowly, "Isn't that just bloody ridiculous?"

"_Oui_," growls Christophe, who does not have time to entertain this delirious bullshit. Not with alarms blaring outside, not with guards combing the building, not when he doesn't know how long they have before someone else comes to break down this door. "So then, do not."

"Remember in Italy," mutters Gregory, "How blue the sky was?"

Christophe snorts, having discarded the bandages. "Eet iz still sheet compared to Paris."

"Of course," Gregory takes a deep shuddering breath, "Chris, you have to get out."

The mercenary feels his body tense, and he brings his arms around Gregory, scooping him closer to himself.

"And what? Leave you 'ere?"

"That is what I was implying, yes."

"Gregory. Look at me." Gregory opens his eyes again to meet Christophe's. "I am not leaving."

"Isn't that just like a Frenchman. More stubborn than a mule, never realizing he's already lost."

Christophe snorts, unhooking the small canister he has on his hip with his right hand, "Well, you should know." Unscrewing the top, he brings the flask to Gregory's lips. "'Ere, drink zis."

Gregory complies, opening his mouth slightly to accept the drink. Christophe pours it down slowly, bringing it back to let Gregory catch his breath before tipping more down. He feels oddly like he is feeding a baby.

"Thank you," gasps Gregory, feeling the alcohol burn its way down his throat. He takes another breath. "Chris, you are not a stupid man. You're good at your job. You know how to kill." Gregory opens his eyes again, trying to find Christophe's, "You know what a dying man looks like."

"_Oui_."

"So what are you still doing here?"

"You are not ze type of person who deserves to die alone."

Gregory smiles. "Is that a compliment from Christophe DeLorne?"

Christophe shrugs, scowling. "Eet iz true."

"You could just put a bullet in my brain," mutters Gregory, closing his eyes again, "It'd be much quicker and I wouldn't be in as much pain as I know I'm going to be."

"What, and give away my position?" replies Christophe, tightening his hold around Gregory's fading body.

"And now jokes. Jokes and compliments from Christophe DeLorne. This is -" Gregory cuts himself off with another series of hacking coughs. His entire body continues shuddering even after he's stopped coughing, and Christophe can clearly see beads of sweat forming on Gregory's forehead, his golden curls growing wet and plastered to the side of his head. He almost thinks about sticking that bullet through Gregory's brain, anything to ease the death he is slipping into. The alcohol he's given Gregory will do only so much. Which is to say, very little.

"You 'ave to stay strong now," mutters Christophe, adjusting his position on the floor while keeping Gregory's head pressed against his shoulder. Gregory notices the shift in Christophe's voice. "Death iz not so bad. If I can do eet, you can do eet twice as good, right? Zat is what you 'ave always said. Just be strong and do not take sheet from anyone. Especially zat _god_, he iz ze biggest beetch of all and he will fuck you over een a heartbeat, Gregory."

Gregory smiles. "I think I'm going to hell anyway, Chris." His voice is so soft Christophe has to bend his head to hear it.

"Good. Zen I will meet you zere."

"Looking forwards to it."

There is silence again, or as close to it as they can get with Gregory's rasping, his blood growing brighter as his body goes paler.

"Chris..." The name comes out in one breath, so low that if his head hadn't already been bent next to Gregory's mouth, it would have slipped Christophe entirely. He hears everything in that tiny strain of a syllable, hears the mourning, the apologies, the good-byes and the so-sorries to the never-happened. Christophe feels something crawl a burning path up his throat, the heat intensified when Gregory flicks his eyes up towards Christophe's, and the French mercenary doesn't even have to ask. He readjusts Gregory's position in his lap. Gregory closes his eyes.

"You know I do not like zis romantic bullsheet, Gregory," mutters Christophe, his voice rough and the words scratched. He sees a smile flicker across Gregory's paling features, the best he can do for a laugh.

And then he has his forehead pressed against Gregory's. He can see every individual eyelash, and the sight of them strikes him with a new sort of pain, a stab of regret that he hasn't known before. How has he gone through life without ever appreciating every single strand that is one of Gregory's eyelashes? How will he continue going through it now, he wonders as he presses his lips against Gregory's, now that he has realized everything he ever had the chance of having, but has for some reason never thought to?

He fills a chill go up his spine when he realizes Gregory's hand is on his cheek, and he wants to hate Gregory for wasting the last of his life's energy on moving his hand to feel Christophe's face, using his thumb to caress the base of Christophe's neck. They break away very slowly then, and Gregory opens his eyes again to look up at Christophe. There is not very much light left in them.

"Chris," breathes the revolutionary.

"_Non_," says the mercenary. "Save your strength."

He cannot bear whatever it is Gregory has left to say.

Outside there are footsteps and shouts again. Christophe holds Gregory close. The other man's eyes are closed again, and Christophe keeps his face titled towards Gregory's mouth, every bit of him straining to hear the man's breathing.

Someone is trying to turn the door knob's handle. The yells are increasing. Gregory's breathing is thin as a ghost and continues to slow, so that every additional second between breaths causes Christophe's heart to skip a beat.

The door is pounding now. Someone is knocking, hitting, kicking against it. Christophe shuts his eyes, focuses on Gregory, waits for the next breath to come, struggling to hear anything over the outside commotion.

"I remember how blue the sky was in Italy," he mutters softly, not sure why he's saying it. "Ze day zey offered us zis stupid job, and you said yes like a stupid beetch."

He is thinking about that day now, about the two of them eating lunch at some touristy place just outside the pantheon, of the man in the trim Armani suit who had given them the job. He is thinking about how it didn't matter what type of suit that man was wearing because Gregory can wear a used dish towel and still look more refined than the snootiest Italian in Rome. He is remembering that look Gregory gets when he is feeling cunning, the one he wore as he talked terms that day. The slanted grin that is small enough to remain polite but wide enough to show off his canine teeth. The way his eyes narrow dangerously, and his voice takes on that velvet quality. It is the look he gave Christophe just hours ago, when they stood outside the facility in the moonless night. Gregory made a joke about dying giraffes and Christophe threatened to whack him with his shovel if he didn't stop thinking like it was fucking kiddy preschool hour.

Now Gregory's lips are blue where they aren't overrun with blood.

The door is forced open with a sudden _bang_, louder than a gunshot, but Christophe doesn't move. His body's instincts have given up, his gun in its holster, his knife in its sheath, his shovel secure across his back. Christophe doesn't look up, not even when he hears all the little clicks of a handful of safeties being released. He never even makes to reach for anything, his hands occupied elsewhere. Someone is shouting something at him. Christophe doesn't know if it's in another language, or if his brain has just stopped working.

He realizes he hasn't heard Gregory breathe in a while.


End file.
